


Hey, I'm Just Like You

by BendItLikeBeckham



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Desi Harry Potter, F/F, Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley Friendship, Lesbian Ginny Weasley, author is a desi butch, butch harry potter, fuck u jkr, i love how that's an official tag, i see all u lesbians thirsting over ginny, like we know she be a lesbian huh, they all b lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24757192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BendItLikeBeckham/pseuds/BendItLikeBeckham
Summary: Their lives have always stretched as parallel lines. Opposite sames. Sometimes Harriet laughs: the pale, delicate, white rose, born on the dark side; the dusty, sandpaper rough, knotgrass, born on the light. It makes her wonder if those words mean anything at all.(POV swap of objectlesson's "farewell this blackened eye")
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	Hey, I'm Just Like You

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [farewell this blackened eye](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23920204) by [objectlesson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson). 



> i've had the worst writer's block, so i just rewrote my big sis Phoenix's piece that she wrote for me from Harry's POV! So all the credit goes to Phoenix! This is literally self indulgence lol. ILY PHOENIX
> 
> song title from the Tegan and Sara song :P
> 
> unbetaed :>

The afternoon sun beats down hot on Harriet’s dark hair, tinging the tips gold while her golden skin crisps a deeper brown. She flops off her hovering broom onto her back in the grass, right next to where Ginny is sitting, legs outstretched, quaffle kicking between her toes idly. She reached over and clasps Ginny’s hand in hers, lifting it to her face, turning it this way and that. Comparing them.

Harry sits, pulling herself up with Ginny’s arm, smirking, “so I’m not sure if it counts as having a tan when your freckles grow together, but it is even so I’ll give you that.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “Ha, bloody, ha. Say what you will, but Luna _likes_ freckles.”

“Luna would,” Harry says, as she tries not to let thoughts of another blonde creep into her mind unbidden.

Ginny pulls her legs in, kicking the quaffle between them to use as an armrest for their joined hands, and leans her head on Harry’s shoulder with a sigh. Her bright, quidditch-knotted hair, spilling from her bun into her eyes, she sighs wistfully, “she likes searching for new spots and counting them. With her tongue.”

Harry shrugs Ginny off her with a shudder. “Please stop making me picture you and Luna fucking. You’re both like my sisters.”

“Fuck you, s’what you get for making me listen to you wax poetic about fuckin’ Princess Death Eater, Harry,” Ginny throws back with a little heat before she’s thought it through.

Harriet’s green eyes flash with hurt and anger. “Shut the fuck up Gin,” she snaps. “Seriously, don’t fucking go there. Please.”

Ginny squeezes her hand in apology, she may not like Malfoy, but Harry is probably her closest friend (excluding her girlfriend that is). “She’s staring again,” Ginny nods to where Draco is hovering, several yards away, on the green, re-doing her ponytail in their mutli-house team robes.

Harry run her free hand through the curls on top of her head, down the shaved back. She’d like to say they are friends now, but the word isn’t quite right. Draco has taken to staring more than was their norm as enemies, and frankly, it was starting to drive Harriet mad. Shimmering gray eyes boring into her skull, blonde lashes blinking her gaze away after a beat of eye contact. Harry wanted to drown in the storm-fog of Draco’s eyes. Learn the pain there in the shadows. Their lives have always stretched as parallel lines. Opposite sames. Sometimes Harriet laughs: the pale, delicate, white rose, born on the dark side; the dusty, sandpaper rough, knotgrass, born on the light. It makes her wonder if those words mean anything at all. Draco, standing in her cold cold house, telling Bellatrix Lestrange that the swollen face before her is not Harriet Potter, makes it feel all the more random.

But Harry hasn’t found someone she can voice this to yet. And despite what their world believes, it’s not Harriet’s place to decide when the grieving should forgive. Despite what many have been lead to believe, Harriet isn’t the one who has lost the most. Her mind healer tells her she isn’t to blame, and she’s decided not to blame Draco either.

Ginny, Ron, and Hermione, can blame who they want.

“I still don’t get what you see in her,” Ginny sighs. “Although,” (she’s grinning now) “you always did have a thing for bitchy seekers.”

Harry laughs. Of course Ginny wouldn’t get it. Ginny’s never cared what people think of her, she’s brash, whip sharp, and goofy. Her feet, though so often flying, remain solid in the moment. Grounded. Harry’s always been stuck in her own head (or Voldemort’s) and then just tossed into one fray or another. Draco cares what people think, and tries to mold herself in that image. Harry wants to know her. Unmolded.

And this year, she feels like maybe she kind of does. Playing with her instead of against her has helped. Her sarcasm pointed, but no longer a weapon. Jabs made in jest, instead of anger.

After a pause this long, Harriet is sure Ginny’s no longer accepting an answer, but she speaks up anyway. “You know how with you and Luna, you’re similar in a lot of ways, but then fundamentally your natures are opposite?”

“I s’pose?”

“Well like, you pull her down from the clouds and she like pulls you off the ground a bit?”

Ginny snorts, “Okay I think I see what you’re saying.”

“It’s not funny!” Harry pouts.

“No, what’s funny is you trying out poetics!”

“Oi!” Harry laughs as Ginny ruffs up the fuzzy side of her head cackling. “Just don’t forget: my eyes are as green as fresh pickled t--”

Ginny, true to form doesn’t even flush, “I was a baby dyke, bad poetry is acceptable. I was eleven. What’s your excuse?”

“I’m a baby butch?” Harry tries, still feeling out the words as they roll around her mouth. Each time she says them out loud she gets a little thrill. Ginny melts a little, it’s something they’ve been going through together. Ginny was the one who held her hand and then shaved her head. Seeing her own face for the first time, only bangs curled over the scar, only downy fuzz covering the rest, that memory was enough to take down several dementors.

“Well stop being a baby and ask her out. That way you know for sure one way or another. Worst comes to worse she’s secretly married to Nott.”

Harry scowls at the thought right as their topic of discussion deposits herself in between them. Up close, she never fails to make Harriet a little woozy, and now her mind is filled with images of her with Theodor Fucking Nott.

“Relax, girls,” Draco says, flopping on her back, face and arms flushed and satiny and so, so, pink. Harry wants to cast a cooling charm on her, maybe do it the muggle way with aloe. Fuck, now she’s imaging rubbing aloe on Draco Malfoy’s smooth bare skin. Ginny groans, and Draco’s eyebrows pinch, just the slightest bit. “M’just visiting my teammates.”

Ginny gives Harriet a ‘get on with it idiot’ look and stands, shaking out the too-short strands from her messy bun. “Weasley,” Draco calls, clearly not wanting to be alone with a perving dyke. “Come on, I was only--”

Harry doesn’t get to know what Draco ‘was only,’ because Ginny shrugs her off. “Play one on one.”

She shoots Harriet another look, and glares at Draco, before stalking off the pitch. Probably to find Luna, married as the two of them have acted for the past, nearly three, years.

“Why does your girlfriend still hate me?” Draco whines, poking Harriet in the side with her broomstick. Harriet bats it away, shrugging. Trying not to give in to the urge to sway her head down to kiss the heat of Draco’s burnt shoulder. They’ve caused the same pain, but she bares the brunt of the worlds blame. Just the way Harry skin is sweat sticky and warm, while Draco looks like she rolled in hot coals. But still, Harriet knows they are not the same. She smiles, because the alternative hurts too much.

“I dunno, maybe it’s the whole betraying us to the dark lord bit,” she jokes, grinning, so Draco knows that. She seems to, but right now it falls flat, and she flattens her pink lips out into a line, and sighs.

“I am trying my hardest, you know.”

Harriet shrugs. “Sometimes that’s not enough.”

Harriet has never been enough. She wasn’t present enough for Cho, she’s not pure enough or man enough for Draco. Not that Harriet really thinks something’s going on with Draco and Nott, but Zabini’s has always been clever, pretty, refined. His friends don’t all hate Draco. He’s a bloke. Harry falls back into the grass beside Draco, looking at the sky instead of the strong but delicate woman next to her.

\-- -

Harriet doesn’t really notice time passing just that at some point everyone must have gone to dinner, and Draco must have spelled the bugs away. Harry’s been looking at the silver moon on the lake, Draco beside her. Companions in quiet. They understand each other here in the darkness.

They’ve both lived through war, not just as soldiers, but as pawns. Puppets of the ones who are supposed to protect. Yes, Ginny gets a lot of it. The possession, the loss, and they’ve spent hours, just holding each other to get through the night. But it’s only with Draco that Harry has this silent, implicit, knowledge that she understands. They both know the love-hate, hate-love, that they were raised in.

Draco has spent so long in Harriet’s heart as love-hate, that when the hate disappeared Harry didn’t even notice. There was just that moment in the room of requirement where a world without Draco was presented, and Harry couldn’t stomach the thought of it. There was a moment at the start of eighth year when Luna marched up to Draco and pulled her into a tight hug, murmuring thanks for being a kind captor. There was Draco, face alight talking quidditch strategy, while Harry imagined she was the broom between Draco’s pale lithe thighs.

Harry can feel the tingle-sense of eyes on her face. She wonders what Draco is seeing. Hoping she likes it, she’ll settle for being a momentary girl-crush. After a few moments, though, it’s too much.

“Why do you look at me all the time?” Harriet wonders aloud, opening one eye to see Draco blush and stutter, and let her long silky blond hair down, only to twist it back up into its pony tail.

“I do not _look_ at you all the time,” she mumbles. “I just. Sometimes it’s mad, to think about how long we knew each other,” she spits out. Draco is quiet for a moment, and Harriet thinks she’s done. But Draco looks away, “I’m only going to say this _once,_ Potter, but—“ and the poison drops out of her voice, leaving it wheezy and blanched as she murmurs, “I’m really lucky you gave me a second chance.”

Harriet snorts. If only Draco knew what kind of chances she’d been granted. Although she had fought herself on the Draco question for long enough. “I don't know why I did, really, but—Im glad, I guess.” Eventually Harry had come to the conclusion that neither of them chose the hands they got, so now when the play has been run, shouldn’t the slate be, not cleaned, but maybe set to the side?

Harriet she sits up, brushing bits of grass from her short black hair. “I sort of just wanted to forget everything that happened up until now. Start over, with whoever survived. And I don’t think you’re as awful as either of us were led to believe.”

Draco blinks rapidly, almost like there are tears behind her pale eyelids, and curls her long, sunburned arms around her knees and draws them to her chest. “I hope not,” she says.

Harry watches her while crickets sing, and the lake laps against the shore, and for once her walls seem to come down. The night holds so many secrets, and Draco looks so wrecked, like she might burst. Harriet wishes she could pull her close, hold her together, maybe never even let go. And in this moment, Harry thinks Draco might let her.

“I never _actually_ hated you, you know.”

Harriet shoots her an amused look, eyes flashing. “Really? You did a fantastic job making me believe otherwise.” She says sarcastically, because _that_ was the confession? Harry feels a little stupid, a bit silly, she swallows and laughs a breathless, self-deprecating laugh. Perhaps, she was the one bubbling with secrets to spill, not Draco. “I never hated you either, though. I—ugh. I don’t want to talk about it. It’ll go to your stupid blonde head and you’ll tease me forever.”

“You _what?_ You fancied me?” Draco jokes, flashing a grin in Harriet’s direction. Like the confession means nothing. She pushes down any hurt, readying for another teasing jab. “Before Weasley came in and swept you off your feet?”

Harriet wrinkles her nose _what?!_ “Why do you—you don’t _actually_ think Ginny and I are dating, do you?” she asks, cocking her head, seriously astounded.

“I—you’re not?”

Harriet dramatically rolls her eyes. “Ginny is like my _sister,”_ she declares, flopping back down onto her back. “Maybe in some parallel universe where I just met her—but, ugh.” Harry thinks of her and if she had just met Ginny. They weren’t really each other’s type. Not to mention Ginny having the strongest will and moral compass of anyone Harry knows. She couldn’t live up to Ginny’s expectation in a partner. “No, not even then. We’re—she’s too _good,”_ Harriet mumbles, tugging out fistfuls of grass and throwing them to distract herself from the woman beside her. They both watch as the grass exits the charm perimeter, there’s a small flash of blue light, and Draco decides to stare at it, Harry stares at her profile. Sharp, exact, aristocratic, delicate. Visually, human representation of what they warred against, but so few people know about the time Draco set herself apart from ‘her side.’ How she doesn’t really want anyone to know she never has one side. But it shouldn’t matter to Harry. Term’s almost over. “I have terrible taste,” Harriet snaps then, letting her hand fall sloppily onto her stomach.

Draco turns to her abruptly, eyes wide and wet in the night. More open than Harry’s ever dreamed possible. She spits the words, not with malice, but like she’s choking, “Well. That’s fine because I have _impeccable_ taste. I—I have loved the chosen one since I was eleven.”

Harriet stares at her, floored. She thinks back through all the years of antagonizing, all the moments her attraction distilled into annoyance and mistrust. The flashes of jealousy. Because there was no way Draco would ever want her back. But here she is, taking Harry’s hand off her stomach, lacing their fingers, and bending over her. Kissing her.

Harriet’s body springs into action with the press of Draco’s lips on her own. She reaches up to curl her fingers in the soft Blonde hair she’s been dying to touch, but finds it’s still tied. She tugs the elastic out and Draco’s hair falls over them like a curtain. Draco’s kisses are hesitant, but so eager. Like she doesn’t think she deserves this. Harriet tries to push everything she feels, all the hope, love, _sweetness_ , into their kiss, into Draco.

She moans into Harriet’s lips and then she licks them, it’s the calmest frenzy that has ever existed, full of yearning and apologies, honey and molasses, and then tears, and tears, and tears. They drip into Harriet’s cheeks, and that’s what makes her pull away. Harry wants to run her fingers over her high cheekbones, to lick the tears from her lips. She wants to pull her back down and consume her.

But the charm breaks and the little moths and mosquitoes which have been collecting along the edge of it collapse into their space, fluttering around them like confetti. “I’m sorry,” Draco breathes against Harriet’s lips.

Harry wants to tell her she knows, tell her not now, but the words are trapped in her throat. Instead, Harriet thumbs the tears away, a gasp caught in her throat at sight of her. The moon light reflecting silver on her hair, tears turning her stormy eyes silver, and tear-silvered cheeks, and hot burned skin. It’s too much, so she drags Draco down roughly, a fist in her robes, slotting their knees together, needing her closer, needing to breathe her in deeper. “Kiss me,” Harriet says.

And Draco _does_.

**Author's Note:**

> lmao Harry just always makes girls cry when she kisses them.


End file.
